


is it worth damnation?

by StrangeHormones



Category: Castle Freak (1995)
Genre: Cheating, Cockwarming, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:06:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24420283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangeHormones/pseuds/StrangeHormones
Summary: sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, it moves beyond choice. it becomes instinct.
Relationships: john reilly/reader, john reilly/you
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	is it worth damnation?

You smile as only someone who is truly happy can manage it. He’s smitten with it the second it appears in his line of vision. As much as he has to pretend otherwise. How the sun hits your mostly worn away lip color just right. You look kissed, he can’t help imagine running the tip of his tongue along the heavy curve of your bottom lip. He forces himself to listen to the drivel until he’s introducing you. His grandniece. You’ve come to help with everything, he understands why when you speak. Your accent is light, the kind one gets from spending their life abroad but it hits in all the right places. He imagines how it would sound saying his name, low and throaty in some hidden corridor. He tries to feel guilty. He reminds himself that it makes sense to have these thoughts and that once things are fixed they will be banished along with everything else. It’s getting harder and harder to lie to himself as the days go on. But it’s easier when you excuse yourself, needing to finish a few things your _nonna_ wasn’t capable of before it got dark. Reminding their tour guide to show them where her room was, so they could let her know if they needed anything, day or night.

 _If you’re wonder whether you should or shouldn’t be bothering me, please do bother me, yes?_ With that smile and a breezy laugh that seemed to relax his very being. She shakes his wife’s hand at her clear urging and exchanging kisses on the cheeks with his daughter at her own request. Then it’s his turn and he isn’t quite sure what to do but you do, it’s alluring and he’s forgotten to pretend he doesn’t think so. You wrapped both your hands around his, squeezing them lightly. He’d just gotten the chance to truly take in the feel of your skin against his when suddenly they were gone and you’re hurrying off. The tour continues, even as he tries to focus he can’t. He thinks back to how it felt to be held by you, he tries not to follow that road too far but it’s impossible. How isn’t he supposed to think of you against him anymore? It comes with guilt, he knows the feeling well but it’s different from every kind before. John feels guilty that he isn’t. Which is a dangerous thing for a man in his position. 

You move with languid sensuality, soft movements that he can’t help following. As if there were some music no one else among them was privy to, but she could hear it louder than the words they spoke among them. He wants to let you draw him into it with you, not to feel it through you but as a part of you. Some primal urge he couldn’t batter down if he tried, and he had made no effort to do any such thing. It’s the only thing left in him that feels good, that doesn’t come with some horrible memory or terrible price. You are free, open, reminding him of a field of periwinkles he’d be happy to hide beneath. He knows he shouldn’t approach you, his fight with Susan and the nightmares are no excuse. But watching you stand just out of reach of the rain, hands pressed outward and dancing in the heavy droplets, the sheer fabric of your robe doing nothing against the chilling winds that had come with the rest of the stormy weather. He should go to bed, the cut on his hand aches and reminds him he’s had more than enough adventure for the evening. But he finds himself stepping towards you all the same.

“Are you alright?”

He expects you to jump, you don’t. Just turned and looked at him. That smile is sad now, a kind he can’t explain but feels like he knows deep inside himself. It’s something you share, the first tangible thing between you. You open your mouth to say something before the sad melts into worry. You’re rushing forward, taking his bandaged hand in both yours just as you had that afternoon. But now no one is watching, he can fall into how your fingers examine the edges, turning it over in your palms.

“Do you trust that you’re here now?” he opens his mouth, shaking his head with vague confusion, “If someone wants to hear over the booming thunder they will find a way,” watching her fingers loosen.

He knows what’s about to happen, and he can’t let it. Not again. Grabbing one of your retreating hands in his uninjured one with a grip that teetered on too constricting. You weren’t, it’s a necessity for him at this moment and it’s such a small thing at that. Regardless of it’s underlying intention, the one they both were ignoring. What more guilt could his wife sentence him to repent for? He dares to lean forward, tugging you towards him, then the world exploded into a flash of light and sound. You look at him, that same look across your features as when he first approached. With little effort you untangled your fingers from his, patting them softly.

“Good night, _signore_.”

You look at him like no other woman has ever looked at him, not even his wife. He hates that he seeks it out, the more Susan pushes him away the more he needs to not just see that look but feel what it does to him. The heat in his belly, that urge to completely lose control, the brief fleeting moment where it all seems worth it. His wife doesn’t want him, she’s made it far too clear she probably never will again. He still has to try, he knows that, and it’s the only reason he doesn’t step over that particular line. But this one he’ll happily cross, stepping slowly between the columns to see you propped against a tree, book propped against your bent knees. How you know when he’s there John doesn’t know, but he’s forever thankful for it.

You peek over the top of the book and your knees, “Signore Reilly-”

“John,” he interrupts, smiling as he steps into the courtyard.

There’s that look. It’s simply happy, framed by batting lashes that give an air of flirting, it comes with a smile that twists your lips in just the right way. He wants to feel your smile against his own lips, some small part of him believing that if he did that he could take some of that happiness for himself. Just a little something good, all for him. Then his favorite part happens, you bite the barest tip of your tongue between your teeth. You never do it when you smile at anyone else, not that he’s seen. Some signal that whatever he thought he was seeing he was, but he’s sure at a point it becomes wishful thinking. 

“How can I help you, John?” you ask, tucking a battered bookmark between the pages and closing it, “Or are you just enjoying the beautiful weather as well?”

He chuckled, stopping at acceptable distance from you, “You could say I’m enjoying something beautiful.”

You arched your brows, “Could I?” you scoot up just a bit, setting your book beside you.

He hadn’t expected you to respond so quickly, two words that seemed to unravel him completely. The gap suddenly seems much too far and if it weren’t for the windows he knows face him he would’ve closed it. He doesn’t consider the windows can’t see you, the view from across the courtyard is blocked by him, and neither of you had considered you would be so bold. You seem almost as surprised as he is. It somehow adds to the allure of it all. The way your skirt lifts as you open your knees. A straight view beneath the black fabric to the lace cream colored panties just beneath. He watches your hands stutter as they grip the fabric, tugging it towards your waist, neither of you can go back and you don’t want to. Just as he prepares to move forward he hears Rebecca, screaming, and he’s gone in a flash.

Later that night, when it becomes clear to him none of this is going to go according to plan. He thinks of you, glowing in the sunlight and wanting him. So much so your body had told him before your mind had caught up and even then there had been no regret. He wonders what you taste like behind the lace, what noises he can draw out of you, it’s all he can think of. For a moment it scares him, that someone could burn reconciliation out of his mind without even trying. It’s starting to seem less and less like happenstance. He was meant to come here for some reason and that meant meeting you, it was always going to happen. One way or another. Maybe this way he can have you. That thought is what tells him it’s time for bed, it’s time to forget for just a little while. 

You smell like peaches and springtime gardens. It fills his mind when he approaches the kitchen, watching you step out the door. No doubt on your way to bed after having a glass of wine or two. The exact thing he had come here to do. Trying to forget that not only did his daughter not believe their daughter, she seemed to feel even stronger about it upon finding out he did believe her. Someone was here, he knew that, he had even heard you mention something to your grandmother. Not that he had been eavesdropping. It was just another thing to draw him to you. He didn’t need wine, it wouldn’t make him feel better, it would only make him worse for more reasons than he can list. What he really needs is you. Seeing the way you stop, once again seeming to sense him, turning in that gauzy robe that tantalized him far more than he had ever expected from something so simple. His eyes trace the low cut of the crossed fabric, showing much more than he’s sure you realize.

“Are you sure?” you ask, looking at him in much the same way he’s sure he must be looking at you.

You continue your journey only this time he follows, both of you moving quickly in the dark. Neither of you daring for more until there is a barrier of sight and a lock. He watches the way the moon shines through the sheer fabric just right, outlining everything he’d never managed to see in the dark. Soon all that hidden skin will be his to explore, to touch, _to taste_. By the time you’ve reached your room he can see the sheen of sweat on your skin and hear your breaths. You open the door, stepping in and listening to him closed the door and slide the lock into place. You turn, waiting, give him a moment to realize how real everything was. It wasn’t just what you wanted but what you were willing to give, he wants you. All of you. The rest doesn’t matter. Not in this room.

You taste of summer wine and candied lemons. More importantly, you’re finally his to savor. He can’t remember wanting anything more than he does you right now. It’s an intoxicating feeling that he watches you fall into, pulling at the knot of your robe and pushing it. He hadn’t expected to find you nude beneath but it’s more than he could ask for, pulling you close to him as he pushed you both the short distance from the door to the bed. You grip him desperately, fingers tangled in his hair, the others fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Whether you fall back or he urges you, neither could quite tell. Just that you feel across the bed, legs hanging off the edge. 

The only warning you receive is from your hand in his hair and where it’s moving, then his tongue is tracing your lips, gathering the taste of you and your entire body shudders. All he can think is how you taste just like he imagines, his tongue dips to hugrily lap up more of you. He grabs your thighs, using them to pull you down the bed a bit more and urge your knees over his shoulders. You move without question, your breath panting when he begins to circle your clit. Setting the bundle of nerves on fire with the tip of his tongue over and over. He’s lost in you, eager for more when the first moan finally drops from your lips. He sucks the bud hard between his lips, never ceasing the movements of his tongue, your hips begin to stutter. He stills them with his grip on your thighs, you desperate, your grip on his hair tightening your other hand used to muffle your ever increasing volume. He wishes you didn’t have to, he wants to hear everything from you. One day he will, he promises himself that when your orgasm begins to crest and it’s hidden beneath pressing flesh and bitten lips.

Your back arches when your hips can’t thrust, your hand in his hair trying to press him forward and finding him unmovable. He never moves, never stops, just pushing you through the sensations. You need him more than you’ve ever needed anything and he knows it, he can feel it, watching you when your grip suddenly disappears. You’re perfect, panting, cupping your breasts as you tried to breath through the tight grip of your teeth, rolling your nipples between your fingers. When you start to fall back to Earth he releases you and you prepare for him to climb towards you. But he doesn’t move, simply shifts his movements to your wet hole. First tracing the edges in a way that made you shiver, before dipping his tongue to taste you from the source. You can’t help the yelp, feeling yourself far closer than you expected to be this quickly. Between his actions and the feeling that it seems as if there’s no place he’d rather be you’re not far from tumble over again. 

“John,” you don’t know what you want or why you say his name, just that it feels right, “John,” releasing the tight grip you had on yourself to reach for him, a hand in his hair, “John,” the other slithering down your own body till it meets his somewhere around your hip and lacing your fingers, “ _Please_.”

You’ve never been more beautiful, needy andsaying his name over and over just like he wants. You’re more than he could ask for, more than he deserved, he wants to give you everything. This is a better place to start than he could imagine. His tongue slides in and out, over and over, his hand gliding over your skin till it rested against your mound and his thumb swirled against your clit. You bite your lips so hard you’re sure it must be bleeding as that indescriable feeling washes over you again. He glides over you, helping you ride it out as he moves his tongue up your body. 

“I need you,” you pant, pulling his lips to yours.

Something about the voracity of it, the mingling of your tongues, your juices, and the coppery taste of blood. Suddenly he’s inside you. You’re so tight around him, he’s almost afraid he’s hurt you. You’re moving against him before he has the chance to ask, stealing that thought and all others that weren’t of this moment from his mind. You’ve wrapped yourself around him, holding him tight as his begins to move, picking up speed faster than you ever could. He doesn’t waste any time in reaching it, determined to force what noises he could from you. To tide him over for some unknowable amount of time. But it’s not enough. You’re panting his name in his ear, he can feel you tightening around him in that unminstakable way, there’s no stopping him. Over and over he sends you tumbling, you’ve never cummed so many times so quickly, you can feel yourself getting dizzy. There’s something so undeniably perfect about it all. 

“I never want to stop,” he moaned against your lips, rolling so you were suddenly on top of him, “I want to spend all night making you come undone.”

You press a hand to his chest, the other into the bed beside his hips, rolling her hips against his. It caused you to rise and fall slowly but more importantly it gripped your muscles tight around him. There was no need for quick, violent thrusting, not yet at least. His eyes twitched from your face to where you were joined and back again, his hands cupping your breasts, ass, and stroking every where in between. It was getting harder to control your movements and his hips suddenly thrust into you. Unable to stop yourself you cried out and you watched him throw his head back. You matched his strokes until each thrust hit somewhere deep inside that made both of you groan.

You orgasms took each by surprise. His came first, keep you tight against him as he bucked upward, the first spurt of warmth inside you was the last feeling you needed to go tumbling over the edge. Both of you crying out as your spasming muscles milked every last drop from him and continued against over sensitive nerves. You feel forward on him, panting, feeling him soften inside you and unwilling to move.

You feel like his. As if all of his life has gone this way just so he could find you. Here. When he finds himself unwilling to pull himself from you, perfectly content to let you sleep ontop of him if it meant he stayed inside of you, he knows. Tomorrow he sends Susan and Rebecca away, he’ll figure out the rest later. For now he basks in the afterglow, feeling you twitch against him occasionally, inside and out. You feel perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and feedback appreciated
> 
> youtastelikesugar.tumblr.com


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